Page 59 of Pretty Little Trigger

CHAPTER 58

Alana

I don’t move .

Not for a long time.

Not until the silence feels louder than the gunshot I fired.

His gun is still in my hand.

The name, Kaden, still echoes in the room.

My chest aches. My ears ring.

My eyes burn. I feel…

everything. And nothing.

I walk into the kitchen like I’m underwater.

Salem’s on the counter, frozen.

He watches me but doesn’t move toward me.

Doesn’t meow. Doesn’t blink.

It’s like he knows. Like he can smell the grief on me.

“Don’t look at me like that,” I whisper.

My voice cracks.

I make it to the dining table (barely).

I put the gun down and drop into the chair like I’ve been shot.

He was there. He whispered in my ear while I feared for my life.

He watched me fall apart, then stitched himself into someone I could trust. Someone I could love.

Someone I did love.

I think I might be sick.

I push up from the table.

My hands are trembling.

I knock over a glass.

It shatters across the floor.

Good. Let something else be broken.

I stumble down the hallway toward my bedroom, but I don’t make it to the bed.

I collapse in the doorway.

Knees give out. Palms slam against the floor.

And then I scream. Into my fists.

Into the carpet. Into the fucking silence.

Why didn’t I see it?

The signs. The instincts.

All the little things that didn’t line up.

I trusted him. I let him touch me.

I let him love me.

I curl into myself.

I cry like I haven’t cried in years.

The kind of sobbing that wracks your whole body.

That leaves you shaking and empty and unsure if your lungs will ever work right again.

And when there’s nothing left, when the sobs are just broken gasps and my eyes feel sanded raw, I lie there in the dark.

And I hate him. God, I hate him.

I hate that I still feel him on my skin.

That I still hear his voice.

That some sick part of me still wants him here.

I feel weak. Broken.

The strength I used to wear slipping through my fingers like sand.

Eventually—after hours, or days, or weeks—I wipe my face, salty tears leaving a trail behind.

I try to pull myself together.

To reclaim some kind of control.

Grieving someone is hard.

But grieving someone who never existed?

That’s something else entirely.

I was in love with a ghost…

A lie wrapped in the shape of a man.

And somehow, that hurts even more.

So I rebuild my walls.

One layer. Then another.

Then another, until I’m buried behind them.

Numb. The sadness disappears.

The vulnerability hardens.

And with that, I make my decision.

He doesn’t get to touch me again. Not even in memory.